


Death and All Her Friends

by kay_emm_gee



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Mages, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5115707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke never asked for this kind of power, the ability to control life and death, but the god-born don’t seem to get much choice in the matter. Neither does training with the mage Bellamy Blake seem like a choice either, but as it turns out, she needs him, more than either of them can guess. Whether he needs her, well–that’s the problem.</p><p>{ A Bellarke AU based on Daine x Numair }</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow last month I got on a Bellamy-would-make-such-a-good Numair train of thought, and then I yelled with Chash (thank you for putting up with my excitement btw) about it and the Tortall universe in general, and here we are. As per usual, the thing grew beyond its original size, and I’m still working on part 2. For now, though, enjoy!

Her mother died, and she ran with the wolves.

Or at least that was what the rumors said, because no one entered the forest without protection, like Clarke had, and came out unscathed. In truth, the wolves left her alone because she left them alone as she hunted for the bandits that destroyed her home, burning her mother alive inside it.

_She must have run with the wolves and led them to the bandits’ camp_ , the townspeople said, because a girl of sixteen couldn’t have killed five grown men on her own. When the lone escapee came forward, terror in his voice as he described exactly how she had done it—felling five men with just a single squeeze of her hand—then the rumors turned to fact, and idle gossip turned to angry, fearful calls to arm.

They hunted her for weeks, until a boy with dark eyes and a kind smile found her, in a dream no less. He was not scared of her feral eyes or bared teeth. He saw the fear behind the wildness, and the blood on her lips from where she had gnawed on them in terror.

“You have to leave,” he whispered as she fell into his embrace. “They won’t let you live, not here, not anymore.”

“I don’t know what happened,” she cried, shivering at the first touch of warmth she had felt in weeks, even if it wasn’t real. “How did I kill them? I don’t remember.”

“You need to run,” was all he said. “I’ll check in on you again soon. I can help. But you need to go. Run.  _Run_.”

So she did. Clarke ran fast and far, leaving everything she had ever known behind.

* * *

The boy never came back, though, and Clarke spent the next year alone, wandering from town to town, shooting game with the bow she had managed to take with her, selling some of her catches when she had extra meat to spare. A particularly lucky string of kills led her to the Tondisi province fair. While fun at first, eventually it was all she could do not to tuck tail and run from the overwhelming crowd before she sold her lot. Never had she been around this many people, not even back at home, and after a year of solitude, it was almost unbearable.

“Odd’s bobs,” she swore, stumbling into a tent to escape the masses.

When she felt the press of a knife to her throat, she regretted her choice. Braving the crush may have been the better idea after all.

“You won’t get the chance to steal anything from me, girl,” a quiet but hard voice hissed in her ear. “I’m not an easy mark.”

“I’m not a thief,” Clarke snapped. “Or if I am, I’m a very poor one, to come stumbling into your tent like this. I just needed to escape.”

The blade remained at her neck for another moment before it slipped away. Twisting away from her captor, who was a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and braids in her hair, Clarke steadied herself, and then straightened.

“Escape who?” The woman asked, twirling the knife between her fingers adeptly.

“Everyone,” Clarke shot back. “I’m not a fan of crowds.”

A ghost of a grim smile whisked over the woman’s face. “You’re in good company.”

“Then what are you doing here, at the fair?”

The smile disappeared. “That’s none of your business.” She stepped forward, but as she did so, she grimaced, favoring one foot.

“You’re hurt.”

“I can still slice you up right quick, stem to stern.”

“I have no doubt,” Clarke remarked shortly. “But you’re still hurt. Twisted your ankle, I’ll bet.”

“It’s nothing.”

“I’m a healer, full trained.”

The woman paused at that, her gaze assessing. “You can’t be more than fifteen.”

“Seventeen,” Clarke sniffed, glaring.

The woman raised her eyebrows, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Alright, girl, let’s see what you can do.”

Without waiting, Clarke forced her to sit on a nearby trunk, hands darting for her ankle. As soon as she touched it, her Gift told her exactly which muscles were strained. It took merely a quick blink, and they were right as rain.

“Astounding,” her patient breathed as she rotated her foot. “And I’m not one to be easily impressed. Where did you train?”

Clarke shifted back on her heels, uneasy. “My mother taught me.”

The woman looked at her skeptically, like everyone else did. No one had as strong of a Gift as she did and learned at home, except she did and she had. “Surely not.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“Then who are you?”

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Clarke. My name is Clarke Griffin.”

“Anya,” she replied. “And I’m one of the head trainers of the Queen’s Riders.”

Clarke let out a loud whistle. “Now I’m impressed.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “Are you at the fair for work or pleasure?”

“Selling some game.”

“So you’re good with that bow then.”

“I’m decent.”

A sharp laugh escaped Anya. “You don’t have a humble bone in your body, girl, so stop pretending that you do. I’m certain you are more than ‘decent’.”

Clarke grinned. “I can manage well with it. Beat all the boys my age back—back home.”

If Anya heard the hesitation in her voice, she didn’t show it. “Good. Another reason you’ll be perfect for the job.”

“What job?” Clarke demanded.

“Turns out, the new recruits whom Lincoln, the other head trainer, and I are escorting to Arcadia are particularly clumsy, though I shouldn’t be surprised. It happens every year. They’re more helpless than newborn colts, which means a lot of accidents that slow us down on the road. Having a healer along would help a great deal. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You’re offering me a job, just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Clarke pursed her lips. It was a risk, to travel so far with complete strangers, but summer was coming, and with the abundance of animals out and about in the season and people free to hunt their own instead of buying it, her income from game hunting would dwindle to almost nothing.

“Alright then,” Clarke announced, sticking out her hand, which Anya gripped firmly. “I hope you don’t regret this.

Anya grinned, a bit wildly. “Oh, I won’t, but you definitely will. That I’m sure of, given the weaklings we’ve got with us this year.”

Clarke snorted in amusement, then followed her new boss out of the tent to meet the rest of her traveling companions. It was a long road to Arcadia, but an adventure was something she hadn’t had in a long while. She supposed it was about time for one.

* * *

Even two weeks in the saddle, endless broken fingers with accompanying whines from the trainees, and soreness that penetrated down to her bones didn’t dampen Clarke’s enthusiasm for the road. The towering dark pines of her childhood home gave way to broad oaks and birches, the temperature climbing as they moved further south. She loved it all.

It was only when they stopped for three days too long on a rest period, and Anya grew surlier by the hour, that Clarke began to worry.

“The trainees are restless,” she heard Lincoln say one night when everyone else was asleep. “We need to move on.”

“Something happened, something bad, but we still need to wait for him,” Anya murmured back. “We don’t have a choice.”

Clarke shivered at the intense worry in her boss’s voice, not able to close her eyes for some time afterwards. Even when she did, it was a restless sleep, plagued by dreams of fire and death, of blood dripping down men’s eyes as they fell to the ground while she watched triumphantly.

With a cry, she woke, blinking into the dark. Her pulse rushed in her ears, and her mouth tasted like iron, like blood.

“Not again,” she whimpered, reaching for her bow as she resisted the urge to run.

_Run,_  she heard the boy whisper from her dream long ago.  _Run, run, run._

Clarke fought the impulse, though, because she had people relying on her now.

“Anya,” she hissed, crawling over and shaking the woman hard. “Something is wrong. Something is coming. We need to wake everyone.”

Anya startled, took one look at her, and nodded grimly. “Alright.”

Clarke blinked, and then Lincoln was up, and within minutes, the rest of the trainees were as well, weapons clutched, tightly, nervously, in their hands.

The attack started with animalistic cries and dark shapes descending from the trees ahead.

“Mithros save us,” Anya breathed before launching into battle with an equally terrifying shout.

Clarke lost track of how many arrows she loosed; everything was a blur, up until the scream of her latest enemy was cut short by her shooting straight through his throat.

_Its_  throat, she realized, moving closer to the twitching remains. Her stomach rolled as she took in the arachnid body with a human head, one with a deformed face. Tales of creatures like this, Immortals—ones from the realms of death, and therefore could not die—had been told around campfires during her childhood, the stuff of nightmares and cautionary tales. No longer were they fiction, it seemed, but rather real flesh and blood.

An owl hooted, startling Clarke, but otherwise the forest was eerily quiet around her. She whirled in the moonlight, finally realizing how far she had drifted from her companions.

“Damn,” she muttered, glancing at her kill one last time before taking off into the forest. Somehow her feet knew where to go, taking mindless step after mindless step, but to her dismay, they deposited her at the bank of river instead of the edge of camp.

She glowered at the rushing water until a soft howl had a shiver running down her spine. Glancing to her right, she saw the source of the sound, a pitch-black wolf with a large gash in its side, lying on the ground. It looked at her with glazed-over brown eyes, then whimpered. Frozen in place, Clarke didn’t dare move.

A much too faint, unsteady, rhythmic thumping noise started up, and it took her a minute, but she finally placed it: a dying heartbeat.

_What in the gods’ names—_ she thought. Then she looked at the wolf, whose gaze was far too penetrating to be natural. Closing her eyes and hoping she wasn’t crazy, she focused in on the beat, beat of the heart—a  _human_  heart, she finally admitted—and drew closer to the creature. As she knelt, she threaded her fingers into its fur, the sensation of the strain on the beating muscle, then on all of the muscles, the ones that had been slashed to ribbons, flooded through her in a way they never had before during a healing. Her joints locked in place, and her vision swam; her lips parted in a silent cry at the intensity of her Gift roaring to life uncontrollably and the way the memory of Anya’s words rattled around in her head.

_Something happened, something bad. We still need to wait for him._

There were a few loud pops, then a groan, and Clarke’s eyes fluttered open to see a naked boy with brown skin and even browner curls falling over his shocked eyes stretched out before her, dirty and bloody but no longer wounded.

“You were a wolf,” she breathed. “A wolf.”

Then she felt herself fall, and everything went black.

* * *

Pain, fear, or embarrassment should have been her first feeling after waking up—normal sensations after fainting in the middle of the forest, in front of a stranger even if he had been the one naked and wounded. Nothing had been normal for her in a while though, not since the bandits, so it only took Clarke a few minutes, which she spent blinking open her crusty eyes, to adjust to the annoyance that filled her as she came to consciousness.

“What are you _doing?_ ” She croaked at the boy—who was now dressed—limping along beside the pallet she was being dragged along in at the back of a horse.

His head jerked down—his eyes were just the same as the night before, wide and brown and far too knowing—and he gave her a small smile. When she returned it with a frown, his eyebrows arched. “Walking. It’s nice to do it on two legs again.”

“You’re hurt,” she muttered, stretching out a hand to gesture at his side. It was a weak movement, and her annoyance grew.

“I  _was_  hurt, and you still are,” he shot back quietly. “Stop moving. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine. And what do you mean was?”

His gaze narrowed, then surprise crept in. “You healed me.” Without pause, he lifted up the side of his shirt, showing a large stripe of pink, mending skin.

Clarke swallowed tightly at the sight, because yes, she could fix things like broken fingers and pulled muscles, maybe even a decent gash here and there. The boy’s wound, however, had been, or should have been, catastrophic. Instead, he was walking—well, limping—but it was more than she apparently was capable of at the moment.

“You don’t remember?” He prodded, concern roughing up his voice.

“I remember a wolf,” she snapped. “Not someone who doesn’t even have proper manners to introduce himself.”

“Bellamy. Blake. Nice to meet you—Clarke.”

Her lips pursed at his smug, know-it-all tone, and he laughed.

“Anya hasn’t shut up about you. That’s how I know your name,” he teased. “Clarke, this. Clarke, that. You’ve made quite an impression.”

“And how do you know Anya?”

A wry smile twisted across his face. “We both serve the crown.”

“You’re a Rider?” Clarke asked in disbelief.

Bellamy laughed. “Not on your life. There is a reason I’m walking instead of on a horse, as much as it pissed Anya off for supposedly endangering my recovery. I may be able to change into animals, but it doesn’t mean we always get along.”

“You’re a mage,” she concluded. “And a powerful one, if you can shapeshift.”

“You know a lot for a country girl,” he baited her, eyes twinkling.

To her chagrin, she took it. “I’m not a country girl.”

“No,” Bellamy mused. “I suppose a hardy country girl would be up and walking about by now, not being toted around like a princess, as you are.”

“Odds bobs, you’re an ass!”

“Whatever you say, princess.”

Furious, Clarke rolled her shoulders, trying to will away her stiffness so she could get out of her stretcher. After a few inhales and exhales, she summoned up her Gift to accelerate her healing, panic curdling in her stomach when nothing came.

“Don’t,” Bellamy warned, clearly having sensed her efforts. “You don’t have the strength. I shouldn’t have teased you.”

“I’m fine!” Then she winced as a bump in the road jostled her, her sore muscles twinging painfully.

“No,” he drawled, locking eyes with her again. “You’re not.”

Clarke couldn’t look away, couldn’t tamper down her unease.

“You didn’t mean to heal me, did you?” He asked quietly.

“Of course I did,” she answered through gritted teeth. “Otherwise I would’ve shot you, put you out of your misery.”

“I was dying, and you brought me back.”

Silently, Clarke glared at her muddy boots instead of her relentless companion. She knew where this was going—flashes of eyes crying tears of blood, her outstretched hand, and falling bodies ran through her mind—and she tensed at the memories, at what his words were stirring up.

“You shouldn’t have been able to bring me back. But you did, even if it sapped everything from you, at least for the time being.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Clarke waited for the rest, the things the villagers shouted at her all those months ago— _it’s wrong, it’s not natural, you’re not natural. Gods-cursed. Freak. Abomination._

“It’s an incredible power you have, walking the line between life and death,” he murmured instead. “Rivals anything I’ve ever seen.”

“All healers walk that line.”

“Not the way you do. Not the way you can.”

Dread and hope both clawed at her chest as she asked, “And you’ve seen a lot of that? That line?”

“I’ve seen enough.”

The bleakness in her tone made her pause. “Are there—are there others like me then?”

Bellamy shot her a tender but unpitying glance. “I don’t think there is anyone quite like you, no.”

“Oh.”

After a few moments of silence interrupted only by the plodding of hooves, he added, “I can help you, you know.”

“How?” She demanded.

His expression softened at the immediacy of her response, and because of that, Clarke couldn’t even bring herself to care how easily he read her desperation.

“By training you.”

“I’m trained. My mother—“ she paused, catching her breath, because even a year later, it still was unbearable, “my mother already taught me how to heal.”

“And she did a fine job,” Bellamy replied carefully. “But I wouldn’t be training you to heal. I would be teaching you control, how to understand your Gift better. That is what I do best, what  _I_  was trained to do.”

Clarke shot a sharp glance at him. “What kind of mage did you say you were?”

“I didn’t.”

He was the one to not meet her gaze this time, and the tension in his shoulders convinced Clarke to let her question go.

“Okay,” she agreed quietly. “I’ll let you help.”

“You’ll let me?” There was a lightness in his voice again, and it set her at ease.

“Yes,” she sniffed.

“Alright, princess. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Stop calling me princess.”

“Okay, princess.”

Clarke huffed, and Bellamy laughed, something that seemed to be a developing theme with them, she was starting to notice. Not the worst start, though, she mused as she watched him out of the corner of her eye, his limp easing with each step and his shoulders relaxing.

_Not a bad start at all._

* * *

“Your breaths aren’t slow enough,” Bellamy taunted.

Clarke cracked her eyes open to see him still sitting with perfect posture, seemingly expressionless.

“Shouldn’t you be focusing on your own breathing? That’s what this meditation bullsh–”

“Ah!”

She rolled her eyes. “–this meditation  _stuff_  is for isn’t it? To center oneself?”

“I, unlike you, know how to meditate. That’s why I can do this and correct your mistakes at the same time.”

“You–”

“Count during your exhales. It helps.”

Clarke glared at him for just another moment before closing her eyes again. Still, behind her eyelids, she could picture Bellamy’s blank face–well, almost blank.

In the three weeks on the road and the month that she had been training at the palace, though, she had learned to read his expressions quite well. He might be good at masking his reactions and emotions, but she knew it wasn’t natural for him. He put a lot of effort into appearing that way. Spending all of her free time learning from him had made her a quick expert in the smallest changes to his mood.

Clarke had leaned a lot of other things too. One, that Anya woke the trainees with a guttural war cry every morning, which Clarke was subjected to given her newly assigned role as the healer for the Queen’s Riders. Two, that Lincoln was quite the artist, though his skills were mostly used to sketch battlefield maps to teach the recruits tactics and strategy. Three, that the trainees finally started listening to her, especially when they figured out she only made stitches and setting bones painful when someone was annoying or arrogant. More than half had been sent home soon after arriving in Arcadia. but she was happy that Maya, Harper, and Lexa had stuck it out.

“Stop thinking so much,” Bellamy groaned, calling her back from her thoughts.

“Stop talking so much,” Clarke retorted.

“Princess,” he warned. “You need to learn this. What happens if you’re trying to heal someone in the middle of a battle? You have to be able to block out everything else to draw on your Gift. Someone’s life could depend on it, so can we please try a little harder?”

Grumbling, she tried to slow her breathing without much success, and it was a long half-hour until the end of the session.

After they finished, he gave her even more exercises to practice before their next meeting, which was a group meditation with all of the Rider trainees. His warning had stuck with her though, so instead of half-heartedly tackling his assignment, she actually took it seriously.

His eyes widened the next time he saw her.

“You’ve been practicing,” he murmured, sitting on the ground next to her.

“You can tell?”

“Your Gift–the strands are less tangled.”

“You can see that?” She blurted. “How?”

He just put a finger to his lips, pointing at the head of the room, where Anya was starting the session.

Clarke frowned, wondering just how powerful a mage Bellamy was, and what other tricks he was hiding. Soon, though, muscle memory kicked in, and all she knew was inhale, exhale, and the beat of her heart. It was too loud though, distracting, so she did what Bellamy had taught her, slowing its rhythm to match her even breaths. The quieter it got, the lighter she felt, and soon enough she lifted from the ground.

The black behind her eyelids turned into a haze of white, and she could hear frantic calling in the distance. She smiled through, rising, rising, then drifting downwards towards a patch of green as the shouting faded.

“What are you doing here?”

Clarke whipped around, her lips parting.

“Mom?”

There Abby was, dressed in simple skirts, like always, but the pallor to her face was gone. Instead, she shone with a faint light, her smile dazzling as she reached out her arms. Clarke flung herself at her mother, who was tearing up. Her own eyes stung as she clutched at her, letting herself collapse into her warm, hard frame.

“I thought you were dead,” Clarke rasped. “I thought you were  _dead_.”

With one last kiss to her temple, her mother pulled away. With scared eyes, she reached up, brushing away strands of loose hair from Clarke’s face. “Honey, I am,” she said sadly.

“Abby?”

Clarke turned, seeing a tall man with greying hair approaching. He stopped short when he saw her though, inhaling sharply. “ _Clarke.”_

Before she could ask, Abby turned her by her shoulders, wrapping her in a hug from behind.

“Clarke,” she murmured into her ear. “This is your father, Jake.”

“Hey, kiddo,” the man offered, his smile hesitant but bright.

“How?” Clarke asked, her heart pounding. “Who is he?”

“A god,” a familiar voice offered from the side. She turned, wondering just who else had arrived.

“Barely,” her father scoffed.

“More than enough to make her god-born,” the boy shot back, and Clarke finally recognized him.

“You!” She demanded, stepping out of her mother’s embrace. “And where have you been the last year, hm?”

“I am sorry,” the boy said solemnly. “Time passes differently here–when I went back for you, you had moved on. I’ve been looking for you since.”

“You’ve done a shi–”

“Clarke!”

She sent her mother an exasperated stare. “Really?”

“It’s alright, Abby,” the boy offered, raising his hands placatingly. “I’ll explain.”

Before he continued, however, a strike of black lightning streaked across the sky.

“Wells,” Jake warned. “She can’t stay here too much longer.”

“I know,” the boy said quietly. Striding forward, he gripped Clarke’s shoulders. “Clarke, you need to be careful. Your Gift–”

“What about my Gift?” She snapped, tipping her chin to glare up at him.

“It will either be your world’s salvation, or its demise,” he replied bluntly, grimacing when she gasped in shock. “Learn to control it, and you will be fine.”

“What does that even mean?” She yelled, because the wind was picking up, and another few strikes of lightning landed not too far from where they were.

“Let her go, Wells! It’s time!” Jake shouted.

“Here,” Wells blurted, shoving something into the pocket of her dress. “Keep this so I can find you from now on.”

He pulled her into a quick hug, then spun her around. “Say your goodbyes, and then  _go._ ”

“Mom?” Clarke shouted, running for her. “What’s happening?”

“You can’t stay here Clarke,” she said, even as she pulled her in for another embrace. “You need to go back. It’s not your time yet.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Go, kiddo,” her dad said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “They need you.”

“I never asked for this,” she cried, staring up at his kind eyes.

“Go, baby,” her mother pleaded. “Go now.”

Furious, Clarke stepped forward, right into a streak of lightning. She gasped as pain shot through her, right to her heart, and the images of her family flickered, the white haze turning black again.

“No!” She shouted. “No!”

Then there was another flash, and the darkness descended. She gasped, opening her eyes. The floor was hard beneath her back, her head ached, and just breathing sent sharp pains throughout her entire body. Muffled voices spoke over one another, becoming more distinct as she gradually regained feeling in her limbs.

Slowly, someone–Bellamy–came into focus, and when her bleary gaze locked on his wild one, he breathed, “Thank Mithros.” Then he turned away and shouted, “Somebody get me a bandage, a rag, anything! She hit her head when she collapsed.”

Still feeling dazed, she murmured, “No.” Images of her mother flashing across her vision. “I don’t want to leave her.”

There was a blur of brown, and her vision spun as Bellamy’s crouching figure did the same.

“Princess?” He asked, his voice cracking.

“Don’t call me that,” she mumbled, wincing at the shard of pressure pressing right over her heart. In the distance, she could hear the other recruits being shepherded out of the room, lowering the din just a bit.

Bellamy let out a weak laugh, falling to sit beside her, even as the remaining others–Anya, Lincoln, and Harper, she could finally recognize–rushed around, no doubt gathering medical supplies. “What the hell did you do?”

“Who said I did anything?”

“You collapsed,” Bellamy murmured, his fingers brushing gently against her temple. She couldn’t help but lean into his touch, and his thumb reached out to scrape against her cheek. “You blaming me for that?”

“No,” she replied sourly, not liking how faint her voice sounded. “But I don’t know what happened.”

“C’mon, princess, just try and remember.”

Huffing, she struggled to sit. A firm hand pushed her back down, though, and she glared at him. “I don’t  _know_ , I was just meditating. I was focusing on my breathing, and it was loud, so I tried to block out all the noise, and then there was this light, and my mother was there, and my father–” she paused, gulping for breath she hadn’t known she needed. “My father, and the boy from my dream, Wells, and they said–”

“Woah, woah, slow down,” Bellamy advised, with an indulgent smile. “Start again. You said it was too loud?”

“Yes. I was trying to concentrate, like  _you_  told me too.”

“The room was dead silent, Clarke. Though I’ll admit, Jasper was breathing a little loudly–”

“I’m serious, Bellamy!”

“Alright,” he soothed, in a soft voice. “What was loud then?”

“My–my heartbeat.”

He stilled immediately. “Your heartbeat. It was loud.”

“Yes,” she replied testily, glaring up at his looming face.

“So what did you do?”

“I made it quiet.”

“You made it quiet,” he said in deadly even voice. “How?”

“I just, I don’t know, made the beats slower, softer!”

Bellamy hissed, and black sparks flew in the corner of her vision.

“Bellamy!” Anya barked, drawing both their attention. “Stop that!”

“She stopped her own heart, damn it!” He yelled, and she could feel the furious, Gift-filled energy rolling off of him.

“I did what?” Clarke demanded, clamping down on Bellamy’s fisted hand as he went to stand. “What do you mean?”

As Lincoln helped her sit up, he explained, “When people with the Gift meditate, what you use that focused control to do is real and tangible–”

“Which I’ve told her,” Bellamy said through gritted teeth as he lent his help as well. Clarke shook off his firm grip, scowling at him before turning back to Lincoln.

“Clarke,” Lincoln continued, his voice deeply serious. “You imagined slowing and softening your heartbeat, and so that’s what happened.”

“Oh.”

“ _Oh,”_  Bellamy scoffed, tossing his hands up in the air.

Anya smacked him on the head, making Clarke laugh, though it turned into a grunt when her chest seized up from the motion.

“Bellamy had to shock you back with his Gift,” Lincoln explained. “You’ll have a nasty bruise on your chest for a while.”

“Sorry,” Bellamy muttered. “But it was the only way. I wasn’t going to lose you, especially, as it turns out, you were simply  _stopping your own heart_ –”

“That was you?” Clarke cut him off, struggling to stand. “The black lightning?”

“That was me,” he said dryly. “A pity you couldn’t have seen it under better circumstances, you know, sometime when you weren’t  _dying_!”

“Enough,” Anya groaned. “I’m sure she understands to not do that again.”

“Does she?” Bellamy seethed, but all anger left his face when Clarke wobbled, and he rushed forward to steady her.

“Let’s get you to your room,” Lincoln offered. “You’re definitely going to need to sleep this off.”

Clarke couldn’t agree more, but as they wandered through the castle, memories of her time in between life and death flickered back to her.

“What’s the afterlife like?”

Bellamy immediately tensed, his hand tightening around her middle. “I don’t know, because I’ve never tried to find out!”

Lincoln snorted, then answered, “Depends on who you ask.”

“I saw my mother.”

Neither man said anything, though she could sense them sending glances at each other over her head.

“And my father, and my guardian,” she added cheerfully. “I was kind of sad to leave.”

“Mithros, Mynoss, and Shakith,” Bellamy exclaimed.

“You’re going to send  _him_  to the grave, if you keep talking like that,” Lincoln said in amusement.

“Well, then he can tell me if what I saw was real, so, problem solved.”

Bellamy groaned, and Lincoln laughed. Clarke couldn’t help from smiling as she looked up at Bellamy and his dark expression.

“I’m starting to regret taking you on, princess,” he muttered.

She kept smiling though, because despite his annoyed tone, he had pulled her closer. His solidness pressed her skirt into her thigh, and she felt something–Wells’ gift, she realized–in her pocket. Curiosity itched at her as Lincoln and Bellamy settled in her room, and as soon as they left, she took it out. Prying it open, she was surprised to find that it was a watch. As her room darkened, she stared at it, trying to figure out how it was supposed to help her. Eventually, the pain in her chest forced her to lie down, and she fell asleep to the ticking of the second hand.

* * *

When she awoke the next morning, she inhaled sharply, memories of a dream–or not really a dream–rushed back. Wells had come to her again, explaining her family history, and why he was sent to look after her.

_Your father always meant to come back for you mother and you_ , he had promised fervently.  _But he was going to tell you of your gift early on, and some of the other gods didn’t approve, so they trapped him here._

He had also told her to continue training with Bellamy, despite seeming a bit disgruntled about it.  _He seems to be doing something right_ , he had admitted, and Clarke had grinned at his reluctant tone.

So she did as Wells asked, and continued training with her mentor, who, as she gradually found out, was a much more prominent mage than she had guessed. His plain clothes and sleight-of-hand tricks–learned from his days as a Player, she had weaseled out of Anya with some moonshine one night–made him seem ordinary, but he was far from that. At her first ball, she had learned that Bellamy had trained at the university in Mounta, Arcadia’s rich southern neighbor and long-time rival nation, their mage school second only to the one in her country. She had also learned, when she was pulled into an overly tight hug by a young brunette with sparkling eyes and a sword at her side, that he had a sister.

“This is Octavia,” he said dryly, pinching his sister’s side and then wincing when she punched his shoulder in return.

Clarke did a double take at the grinning girl. “Wait, the lady knight?” She was a legend, the girl who had masqueraded as a boy to train as a knight until she was found out at age sixteen, and then had won the right to continue her training regardless.

“I’m not a knight yet,” Octavia grumbled. “And certain members of the Council are still trying their hardest to stop it from happening, but I’ll get my shield, one way or another.”

The way Bellamy shifted protectively, warmly, towards his sister made Clarke’s heart clench. “You’ll get your shield,” he promised fiercely.

“Not by coercion I won’t, so rest your Gift, big brother,” Octavia said sternly, then turned to Clarke. “You would think, with a new mentee, he would be less overbearing.”

“So it’s not just me? Good to know,” Clarke replied with a grin.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Octavia sighed dramatically.

“You and I, are going to be great friends,” Clarke announced, sliding her arm into Octavia’s. She laughed at the way Bellamy’s eyes widened in concern.

* * *

Octavia did turn out to be a good friend to have in the coming weeks. Her lightness kept Clarke’s spirits up as the difficulty of her magical training increased, and they swapped trade secrets as well. Clarke learned some fighting techniques, and Octavia eagerly picked up some quick healing lessons for the battlefield. Bellamy watched them, in amusement and exasperation, calling out critiques that were neither wanted nor needed. His help only became genuine when reports came in of more Immortals sightings, the number of attacks on Arcadian villages rising sharply as the summer stretched on.

“See, Octavia, studying obscure texts does have some use,” he drawled triumphantly as he greeted them after a lecture on the history of immortals that he had given to the entire trainee contingent at the castle.

“You must have strong neck muscles, brother, to keep your big, big head upright like that,” she shot back, and Clarke stifled a laugh at the way Bellamy scowled in return.

It was hard to part from Octavia when the Riders left for fall training. Traveling with Bellamy was easier this time, no doubt because he wasn’t recovering from a near-death shapeshifting experience and she wasn’t being toted around in a stretcher. Instead, they walked, side-by-side, her teasing him about his fear of horses, and him being overly concerned when she finally got a chance to ride one again. And that was how the rest of the fall, and winter, and spring, went: easily. It was so easy between the two of them that when, one night with the fire crackling at their feet, he asked her about what happened to her family, she told him the whole story, start to finish, about the fire and finding the bandits and how she had just thought of them dead and then they had been, blood pouring from every orifice. She didn’t even leaving Wells out, throwing in her afterlife family visit experience from the summer as well.

He just listened without interrupting, and the words he spoke to her afterwards were reassuring, with no judgement in them. He gripped her hand when tears threatened, slowly explaining what he had suspected for a long time, that her godly heritage made her healing Gift stronger, allowing her to not just heal, but be able to control life and death itself.  _It’s the reason you’re so damn good at sensing the Immortals, because of they come from the realms of the dead_ , he had explained, his voice low and even in the dark.  _You’ve saved our lives a dozen times over, so your Gift truly is a gift, and don’t you ever think twice about that._  It should have disturbed her more than it did, her extreme power, but with him by her side, it didn’t seem quite so terrifying. Her secret out at last, Clarke threw herself into her training wholeheartedly, and Bellamy grew more and more pleased with her progress, praising her as the months passed.

* * *

So, it wasn’t a surprise when he took her with him on a mission for the Riders the next summer. It was a good thing she had gone with him, too. Their simple task of feeling out whether some southern lords had turned traitor and allied with Mounta–whose leader, Dante Wallace, was turning his greedy eye more and more towards Arcadia–had become much more complicated when Bellamy had gotten separated from Clarke, stuck outside the county’s border by a magical barrier.

Clarke found an ally in the daughter of one of the turned lords, though, and Charlotte proved to be a tremendous help, even if she did keep the questionable company of a few Stormwings. More than their smell, the dark, deathly energy that surrounded them, one that called to Clarke too deeply, unnerved her, and she avoided them at all costs. Still, even she had to admit they were crucial to breaking down the barrier to let the Crown’s troops, and Bellamy, in to help them arrest the traitorous citizens.

When her part of the mission was finished–destroying the Cerberus poison–she raced out of the castle, desperate to find Bellamy. She followed the booms and crashes and crackles that echoed from the front courtyard, where it sounded like Bellamy was in the fight of his life as he battled his old classmate and equally powerful mage from Mounta, Tristan Forrester.

Her heart stopped when she saw them fighting, Bellamy’s black Gift clashing with Tristan’s sickly green one. His name teetered on her chapped lips, but the fear of distracting him stopped her. Even though she didn’t make a sound, Tristan’s eyes flicked to her, and he grinned, cruelly.

With a twist of his hand, the ground disappeared beneath her feet. Her stomach dropped, as did she, falling into a great crack in the earth. The wind whistled in her ears, and she could faintly hear Bellamy’s roar in the background. The word he shouted seemed to suck the moisture out of the air–there was a loud whine, then a deafening pop, and suddenly she was dangling in midair, no longer falling, her wrist trapped in a hot, vise-like grip.

With a grunt, Bellamy pulled her up, and she let out a cry when she saw a flash of spikes below her, right before she was back on solid ground again.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, sitting up at his side after catching her breath. “I shouldn’t have come out here.”

“What?” He asked incredulously, looking up at her with frantic, confused eyes. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I should’ve been paying more attention, and I didn’t see you, and he almost, he almost–”

Clarke laid a gentle hand on his heaving chest. “I’m fine, Bellamy. I’m fine.”

“He almost killed you.”

The pain in his voice sent a sharpness through her gut. Swallowing thickly, she laid back down, hesitantly resting her head on his chest.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, firmly, quietly. “Bellamy, I’m okay.”

His arms came around her slowly, keeping her pressed against him.

“You’re my responsibility,” he murmured, voice weary.

“Goes both ways,” she immediately replied.

He chuckled, and it warmed her insides just as much as his body heat warmed her skin.

“What happened to him?” She asked after a minute, letting him catch his breath.

“He’s gone.”

She arched her head up at his dead tone. “Bellamy.”

He didn’t respond, just stared straight up at the sky. Carefully, she glanced over to where Tristan had been standing. In his place was an oak tree, its branches waving brittlely in the breeze.

“Bellamy,” she breathed, realizing what he had done. Using a word of power was something incredibly dangerous, and something only a mage who had earned his Black Robe could do, and it was what the boy of only twenty-three lying next to her had done, and he had done it to save her.

Her throat dried up as she lied back down next to him, resting her hand over his still-racing heart.

“What do we do now?” She asked quietly.

He shifted, pulling her closer. “Can we figure it out later?”

“Whatever the hell you want.”


	2. Chapter 2

Three months later, it seemed all Bellamy wanted was distance. Ever since returning to the capital, he slowly had pulled away. He did it with a smile, telling Clarke that her training was almost complete, that he didn’t need to monitor her quite so closely. The smiles were brittle, though, and his gaze wouldn’t meet hers. Not one to sit by with idle hands, she filled the free time by training with the palace healers, or with her Rider friends. Still, she missed Bellamy. She found herself lingering in the library after dinner, near the ancient text section where he would sometimes hole up until the early hours of the morning, or making friends with the university mage trainees so she had excuses to pass by his office.

It was Raven, one of her new mage friends, that advised her to find a distraction.

“I don’t need another hobby,” Clarke groaned. “I barely have time to sleep.”

“Not the type of distraction I meant,” Raven said with a grin.

Clarke frowned. “What?”

“If you’re hung up on Bellamy, then--”

“I’m not hung up on Bellamy!”

Raven whistled low and long. “Alright then. Still, I think you need to remind yourself what fun is.”

“I know what fun is,” Clarke said. “I’m fun!”

“Then come to the festival tomorrow night. Monty said he brewed up a special batch of moonshine, and there will plenty of other _distractions_ there for you to enjoy.”

Raven wasn’t wrong. It did do her good to let loose, and when Lexa leaned in, kissing her with soft purpose, Clarke tangled her hands in the girl’s hair, allowing her lips to part with enthusiasm.

And that was how the two of them continued on, enthusiastically, both that night and in the following weeks, and then months. Clarke let Lexa sweep her into a whirlwind of new experiences and new people. She often rode out with her troupe on patrol, sometimes accompanying them for weeks at a time, not caring how Anya admonished her for shirking duties at the castle, or how Bellamy glared at her when she fell behind in their lessons.

“You think you’re completely in control, now,” he argued one evening. “You’re not. You’re sloppy, and careless, and it could hurt someone.”

“Maybe if I had a better teacher, one who actually set aside time to train me, I wouldn’t be the mess you claim I am,” she had shot back, watching his jaw clench at her barb.

“I have responsibilities here,” he claimed, though he didn’t meet her eye. “Ones other than just you.”

“And I have other interests besides useless old texts and practicing my breathing endlessly!” She snapped before storming out, though he had actually been the one to slam the door behind her.

They didn’t speak for weeks after that, not until Lexa heartbreakingly announced she had taken a commission far to the north and wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. Clarke couldn’t even bring herself to say goodbye, wondering how exactly she had manage to lose her, her heart clenching at the thought that maybe she had never even really had her to begin with.

Flooded with frustration and pain as she was, all it had taken for Clarke to completely lose control was a snide comment by one of the Rider trainees--one who always whined when she healed him, even for minor cuts--about Lexa and her. Rage welled up inside her, and suddenly the recruit was struggling to breathe. He clutched at his throat, and she cried out, not knowing how to stop it. Harper had snapped her out of it with a sharp slap to the face, but the damage had been done.

Bellamy had found her in her room, curled up in a ball and crying on her bed.

“I didn’t mean to,” she sobbed as he sat down behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders to pull her back towards his chest. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“I know,” he murmured in her ear, bracketing her body with his legs. “It’s not your fault.”

“I almost killed him.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I’m losing control.”

“I know. But you’ll get it back. We’ll get it back. I promise.”

She never missed a lesson after that, throwing herself into disciplined study so furiously that even Bellamy was concerned.

“You’re not going to heal a stab wound by sheer force of will,” he said dully during one of their sessions.

“Watch me,” she retorted, though her gut nagged at her, telling her that he was right.

* * *

 

They received a much-needed break from their exhausting routine when Duke Kane, one of Bellamy’s contacts at court, informed them that they would be accompanying him on a diplomatic mission.

“Emperor Wallace wants to meet the brave folks who caught Tristan and his fellow traitors,” he explained to them in a dry voice. “You know, to thank you for stopping those citizens of his whom are misrepresenting his country’s loyalties.”

Clarke snorted at that. It was the realm’s worst-kept secret that Wallace wanted Arcadia under his regal thumb, and he wanted it badly enough to resort to sending snakes like Tristan to infiltrate and destabilize their country. It was why Bellamy had protested them going at first.

“Wallace exiled me from Mounta for a reason,” he argued. “I didn’t agree with his policies when I was at university there, and I sure as hell haven’t changed my mind since then. And I’m also sure his spies at court have told him about Clarke’s abilities. He’s a warmonger, despite his philanthropic facade, and what better weapons to have at his disposal than a black-robe mage and a god-born death mage?”

“You’re still going,” Kane had replied solemnly. “It will look worse for us if you refuse.”

“Mithros curse politicians,” Bellamy muttered in response, and it wasn’t the last time those words slipped from his lips as they prepared to journey to Mounta.

The fact that Clarke was noticing his lips--and his shoulders, and his hands, pretty much everything about him--more and more lately made the tight quarters on the ship awkward. It didn’t help that Bellamy grew increasingly closed off the nearer they drew to their destination.

“Mounta does not hold many fond memories for him,” Sir Nathan, one of the knights accompanying their mission, advised her one night as they looked over the railing to the dark, calm sea stretching out before them.

Clarke was surprised, because she hadn’t known Bellamy and Nathan were friends. “I figured, if he was expelled from university.”

“Wallace threatened his sister,” Miller offered bluntly. “When Bellamy started speaking out about the injustices and inequalities in Mounta, Wallace tried to blackmail him into shutting up.”

Clarke inhaled sharply. “I’m surprised he didn’t kill Wallace.”

There was a glint in Miller’s eyes that told her she wasn’t far off the mark. “It was a miracle the both of them managed to escape unscathed. Even after they fled to Arcadia, Wallace sent people after him to take care of them. It was only when Octavia went after her shield and Bellamy got his position at the castle that the attacks stopped.”

“He never said,” Clarke murmured.

“He probably never would have.”

“And you’re telling me because?”

“You need to watch out for him. Bellamy’s learned to keep his temper check, but he’s not perfect. And Wallace will no doubt antagonize him.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Clarke promised, imbuing as much fervor into her voice as she could. “I swear it.”

“And yourself too,” Miller offered, before clapping her shoulder and wishing her goodnight.

It was understandably tense when their group walked off the boat and were escorted to meet the entourage the emperor of Mounta had sent to greet them, too busy to do it himself. Clarke grew impatient with the formalities, struggling to not fidget with her overly dressy uniform in the sweltering heat. There was no breeze despite the welcoming pavilion being situated on the edge of the ocean, making it seem as if they were in a windowless room, with no hope of reprieve.

“We should’ve mutinied, taken over on the boat and sailed to the Isles,” Clarke muttered under her breath. “Maybe we still can. I could use a vacation.”

Bellamy choked back a laugh, earning them both a dark look from Kane.

The day didn’t get much better, especially when a bored-looking boy, decked out in all sorts of royal finery, stepped forward and blandly offered to be Clarke’s escort around the city during their stay. Bellamy tensed, but Kane just pushed her forward and accepted on her behalf. Her only consolation was that the boy looked about as thrilled as she did with the situation.

“Please,” he had said in a low voice when they left the rest of the group behind. “Call me Finn. It’ll be easier for both of us.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we forgot this whole proposition altogether?” She shot back without thinking.

He surprised her though, mouth tugging up at her forwardness. “If only. But the emperor will no doubt be, uh, interested in how our afternoon went.”

Clarke raised her eyebrows and then nodded in understanding. Of course Wallace would have spies trailing their every move. “Lead on, kind sir,” she deadpanned, even throwing in a patronizing curtsy for full effect.

Finn smiled and laughed again, genuine amusement flashing across his face. “I have a feeling I won’t be doing much leading on this visit, with you around.”

“Glad to see we agree on something.”

It was about the only thing they agreed over the next few days, though, because Clarke found his opinions on everything--art, architecture, history, culture, war, what have you--to be entirely different from hers. Even when their opinions did align more closely, he always favored a more passive way of achieving what they both wanted, while she preferred more direct action.

“Nothing will change if you just wait for it to happen,” she argued.

“Change won't occur overnight, though!”

“It will if you want it badly enough.”

That sent a startled look into his eye, and he subtly brushed a finger over his lips. Clarke nodded in understanding, knowing here, in this place, their conversation was radical--dangerous, even. So she let him turn to the topic to something innocuous; in fact, much of her first week was spent in a similarly shallow manner. She was toted around on various tours and served as an ‘honored guest’ as several local events. By the end of the week, restlessness had settled in, and she nearly snapped at the attendants who, very much unnecessarily, were sent to help her dress for the ball, a spectacularly frivolous end to a useless week.

Even if she had been allowed to attend the ambassadorial meetings, though, her days probably would not have been that much better. According to Kane, the negotiations for better relations between Mounta and Arcadia had already stalled. Not unexpected, but still disheartening this early in the game.

Clarke grumbled as she stumbled on the hem of her dress again--a floaty thing, only tight above her rib cage where the straps were thick but the collar much too low, with the rest of it cascading down weightlessly, the color darkening from sky to midnight blue. Her hair was trussed half-up into some complicated arrangement that the maids had squealed in delight about. She had pretended not to hear the way they whispered about how _oh won’t His Highness be impressed_.

It wasn’t a surprise, really, because Finn had been less than subtle about his growing interest in her. He was entertaining to talk to, if naive in his political opinions, and she wouldn’t say he was the worst choice for a companion she was required by formalities to spend time with. Still, she wasn’t interested in more with him, and for many more reasons that just the threat of a war between their two countries.

With a huff--because she had nearly tripped again--she hitched up her skirts, keeping them that way even as she walked into the ballroom, not caring about politeness. The energy of the celebration overwhelmed her immediately. The room was a whir of color and sound, entertainers in every corner and food and drink passed around in copious amounts. Clearly Emperor Wallace, elusive as he was, seemed determined to put on a show for his invited guests. Frowning, Clarke wondered how many of his citizens were going without food in the coming weeks just so he and his court could indulge in this extravagance.

“I should have stayed in the university tonight. At least the parties there don’t require dressing up.”

Clarke looked to her right and grinned up at Bellamy. “Like Kane would’ve let you escape. He’s already annoyed at how much time you’re spending there.”

“And I told him, the farther away I am from Wallace, the better for everybody. Besides, isn’t that why we came? To foster ‘cooperation’?”

“Bellamy,” she sighed. “Really, not here.”

He hummed in protest, shooting a short glance in her direction that was quickly followed by a longer one, a more considering one. She watched his jaw flex before he said, “You look--nice.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

“Thank you.”

“For your royal puppy dog, I presume.”

Clarke bristled at his harsh tone, and the jab at Finn. “What am I supposed to do, Bellamy? I can’t exactly tell him to shove off.”

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea.”

“Bellamy!”

“What?”

She huffed in disapproval. “You know what Kane said, that we need to--”

“Foster international relations? Oh yes, I’m quite clear on that point. Though the type of relations His Hairness has in mind are probably--”

“Stop right now, Bellamy,” she hissed. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

Warmth pooled in her belly at the self-consciousness in his tone, the first sign of anything but cool reserve from him since they had left Arcadia. She started to reply with reassurance that she had no interest in Finn, but then a woman swept up to them, determination set into her sharp features, a hungriness in her dark eyes that made the words catch in Clarke’s throat.

“Echo?” Bellamy said, his eyes widening.

She smiled, a wildness in the twist of her lips. “And here I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

“I didn’t know you were here! Are you working for Wallace?” The curiosity and defensiveness in his tone piqued Clarke’s own, and she shifted forward, ready to step in if necessary. Clearly he knew the woman from his previous time here, and she guessed they had been classmates at the university.

“He can be persuasive,” Echo answered, voice clipped but amused. “Though you seem to be immune to it.”

Bellamy’s expression shuttered, and Clarke reached out her hand towards his arm but thought the better of it when she noticed Echo pick up on the gesture. Hastily Bellamy introduced her, then shot some rapid-fire questions at Echo about people and places and events they knew but Clarke didn’t. Boredom, annoyance, and uncomfortability simmered in her gut, until she would have even used Finn as an excuse to get away from the excluding conversation.

It was only when a servant came and whispered in her ear that she found a reason to leave. Bellamy at least did a double-take when she stepped away, his brow furrowing. Clarke just shook her head, letting him know she was okay. At her hesitation, the servant hummed in concern, gesturing hurriedly, so she hastened her steps out of the ballroom. Several hallways and a few descending staircases later, Clarke found herself in the depths of the castle, in front of an imposing door. Just as she was about to knock, it swung open to reveal an older man with neat white hair and shrewd eyes. It was only when the servant escorting her bowed low that his identity dawned on her.

“Emperor Wallace,” she said, curtseying. “It is an honor.”

“It is finally nice to meet you, Lady Clarke,” he replied with a small smile, ushering her into the room. “I am sorry for the oddness of this meeting, but I have something of sensitive nature to discuss with you.”

Despite his soft voice, the back of her neck tingled in warning, as Kane and Bellamy had been quite adamant about the cunning nature of Mounta’s leader. Then a few soft moans distracted her, and she realized the large room was filled with infirmary beds, some occupied. The patients were mostly asleep, but not restful. Some shuddered, others whimpered. All were pale and sickly, and the majority had peeling skin, reminiscent of burns.

“What’s wrong with them?” She demanded as she strode forward towards the first set of beds, her healer’s instincts surpassing everything else.

“We don’t know,” Wallace replied sadly. “The symptoms came on suddenly after they returned from a routine scouting mission in the eastern lands. It’s not contagious, but it is degenerative. Even my best healers cannot figure out how to cure them, only ease their symptoms. That is why I asked you to come along on this visit with Kane, for your expertise. If you can’t save them, with your extraordinary healing powers, I don’t know who could.”

Clarke paused in her assessment of the patients for a brief moment, flicking a careful glance at Wallace. His tone was contrite enough, but the way he watched her made her skin itch.

“I’ll do my best,” she offered slowly. “But I cannot promise success.”

“Whatever you can do will be more than enough.”

She and Wallace settled into something of a truce for the rest of the evening, him following her like a shadow as she let her Gift work. The more the torchlight shadows stretched on the wall, the more frustrated she became, because there was nothing natural about the sickness of these patients. Finally, reluctantly, she had to call it a night, as her Gift was waning.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, and the rest of the week,” she offered. “I’ll spend as much time here as I am able to.”

“My people and I would be most grateful,” Wallace said. “Thank you, Lady Clarke.”

By the time she got back to her room, tiredness blurred her vision, enough so that she didn’t quite register the cloaked figure in the corner of her room until it was rushing towards her.

“None of that, princess,” the man taunted, twisting around behind her and clamping a hand over her mouth. “Can’t let anyone know I’m here.”

Furious, Clarke bit down hard on his fingers, but he just laughed. “Weak. Even being god-born, your bite feels like nothing more than a little tickle to me.”

Then he snapped his fingers and released her. She tried to cry out, but her throat clenched, going bone-dry. She tried twice more before she realized her captor was laughing outrageously.

“Bastard,” she managed to hiss out once she realized it was only volume that was her limiting factor for speaking.

He grinned sharply. “I’ve been called worse.”

“And that would be?”

“I’m offended. You don’t recognize me?”

“Northern gods aren’t usually so abrasive,” Clarke sniffed, finally catching up a bit. He was a god, of course--powers and arrogance in spades.

“I’d disagree. I’ve met your Wells. Not a fan.”

“I’m sure the dislike is mutual.”

The god sniggered. “He is trying so very hard to find you right now. A pity I won’t be around to see the look on his face when he finds out where you’ve been.”

“What do you want?” Clarke bit out, fisting her hands so she wouldn’t lash out at her sneering companion. She didn’t know how far she could push him at the moment; gods were notoriously moody, and she would rather leave this encounter alive.

“Your help, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Is that a no?”

“That is a hell no.”

The god grimaced, flipping long strands of brown hair out of his face. “Well, not unexpected, but also irrelevant. And harder for you, since now I won’t do you the courtesy of explaining what this will do to you.”

Clarke didn’t have a chance to react before he swiped at his eyes, which were now dripping blood, and ran his coated thumb over her own eyelids. She cried out in protest, as his touch left a burning sensation in its wake, and she reached out in front of her. When her fingers brushed fabric, she swung out with her fist. A sharp thud sounded, followed by a grunt, and her knuckles throbbed in pain.

“ _Mithros_!”

Her vision finally cleared, and the god was gone, Bellamy glaring at her instead.

“What the hell?” He shouted, hand at his cheek.

“You shouldn’t barge into people’s rooms unannounced,” she snapped, still reeling from her latest godly encounter. The burn in her eyes was subsiding, and she didn’t feel much different otherwise. Still, god-given gifts often manifested at the worst times, and given the importance of their group’s visit to Mounta, this definitely counted as a worst time.

Bellamy grumbled under his breath, then replied, “I barge into people’s rooms unannounced when they’re screaming like they’re being attacked.”

She sighed when he dropped his hand, revealing a large red mark which was sure to develop into a nasty bruise.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching forward. “It was--a nightmare.”

He frowned doubtfully as she reached up and swiped a thumb over the injury, but it didn’t heal. Clarke fought to draw up more of her exhausted Gift, smiling faintly when the redness finally subsided.

“Why is your Gift drained?” Bellamy demanded, catching her wrist.

“It’s been a long day.”

“Bullshit. Where did you go tonight?”

“I don’t need to account every minute of my day to you.”

“You can’t just go wandering off, Clarke!”

“I wasn’t wandering! And where the hell were you, hm, out this late? Because I’m assuming with your evening clothes still on, you didn’t just hop out of bed.”

Bellamy set his jaw stubbornly. Just as he started to say something, Clarke noticed the disheveled nature of said clothing. Her thoughts flashed to the hunger in Echo’s eyes earlier. With more than a little bitterness, she taunted, “Or maybe you did just hop out of--something.”

“Clarke--”

“Go, Bellamy. I’m too tired for this,” she protested, stepping back towards her bed, finding her words to be suddenly true.

Bellamy stared at her for another moment before obliging. The _goodnight_ he murmured over his shoulder at the last moment nearly made her call out again, but then the door clicked shut.

* * *

 

She slept uneasily, but Wells was still able to find her, palpable fury still radiating off him.

 _I can’t believe he had you,_ he thundered. _What the hell does he want with you?_

 _Who is he, this god?_ She asked.

 _Trouble,_ Wells grumbled, and Clarke rolled her eyes.

 _I figured that out myself_ , she said dryly. _Really, though, who is he?_

Wells opened his mouth, but then colors flashed, and Clarke found herself blinking awake in the still-dark hours of the morning. A soft sneering chuckle echoed in the room, and she groaned in frustration.

 _Gods-cursed gods_ , she thought nonsensically, half-expecting a thunderbolt to strike her then and there for that sentiment.

The snarky god didn’t return though, keeping to his nasty promise of letting her figure out her problem on her own. Not that she was any closer to doing that. Wells did not return either in the next few days, also probably the work of the god. Bellamy avoided her too, or she avoided him--it was hard to tell--though that was not fault of the god, only her own jealousy and his stubbornness.

With Wallace’s task to distract her though, Clarke kept herself plenty busy. Every day she spent trying to solve the mystery of the illness draining the life from her patients. It was incredibly difficult to parse out, and nothing she tried made much more of a difference. Kane did not particularly like the agreement she had made with Wallace, and Bellamy had gone a bit ballistic when he had heard--at least according to Kane, because she hadn’t felt like telling him herself--but she still felt compelled to help. Even if Wallace didn’t deserve it, her patients did, and Kane reluctantly agreed.

She spent most of her time in the infirmary, so Finn eventually found her and visited while she worked. It was hard for him to be down there though, when Cage, the emperor’s son and heir to the throne, also prowled the sickroom. He was eager as his father to find a cure, but much more abrasive. More times than not he just got in Clarke’s way, disagreeing with her every assessment. Finn tried to intervene, but that usually just made things worse. He was next in line to the throne after Cage, and there were some rumors, based on variable interpretations of past bloodlines, that the Collins had a more legitimate claim to the throne than the Wallaces, and that the outer nobles supported that claim, growing tired of Dante’s greediness both at home and abroad. Clarke slowly learned that there was a reason for Finn’s political caution and passiveness, as his seemingly close relationship with the Wallaces was more of a gilded cage, designed to keep him in check. So when he and Cage clashed, it made her nervous for Finn.

“I’ll be fine,” she stated firmly, quietly, as she ushered him from the sickroom for the last time. “Honestly, I can handle him.”

“I don’t like leaving you alone with him,” Finn protested, latching onto her wrist.

She shook him off. “He doesn’t have the Gift, and I do. I’m safe.”

She was, safe from Wallace at the moment, but Mounta was growing more dangerous by the day. Whispers of rebellions at the outer edges of the nation grew louder, and odd things began happening. Crops dying, the ground shaking, water sources going bad, _first son, first to die_ scrawled on Cage’s royal portrait no matter how many times it was washed clean--all signs of a displeased god. Clarke ignored the worried voices that told her change, big change, was coming to Mounta, because if she admitted that, then she admitted _her_ god, and what he had done to her, was a much bigger deal than she had first imagined.

* * *

 

It finally could not be ignored any longer, though, when she realized exactly who he was, identifying him on the medallion one of her patients clutched between weak fingers.

A popping noise sounded behind her, and Clarke whirled, hissing, “ _Trickster_.”

“You figured me out?” The god taunted, looking down his large nose at her. “Took you long enough.”

“I have better things to do with my time than play your games. I’m trying to save lives here, if you haven’t noticed.”

Suddenly the air crackled, and Clarke could swear she sound stormclouds rolling in the god’s eyes.

“There are more lives depending on you that this, little godling,” he thundered, a dangerous tension in the line of his shoulders. “So much more is riding on you than you think.”

“If you just told me--”

“It is not for you to question!”

She found herself choking again, as if a noose was around her neck. Glaring, she clamped her lips shut, and slowly his hold released.

“Are all gods such asses?” She muttered, earning a sharp laugh from the Trickster.

“Only the best of us. Keeps us human,” he quipped with a sharp curl of his lips before rubbing his nose. “And stay away from the Wallaces, little godling. It would be a pity for you to get caught in my crossfire.”

Clarke blinked, and he was gone. Storing away his last little slip of information--that this vendetta of his was with the ruling family, not necessarily Mounta itself--she turned back to her patients.

She stayed late in the infirmary that night, hoping to achieve some kind of progress. Wallace’s smiles were growing less encouraging and more frigid as the days passed; she didn’t want this to turn into an international incident. After the third round of sifting around for a source of the magical infection in various patients, she sighed, letting her Gift roll outward in a lapse of focus. To her surprise, she felt it collide with something in the near distance. Walking up to the wall from which the energy pulse had come, she examined it, finding nothing. Only when her hair rustled in a breeze from above did she register the stone air shaft. It took a little maneuvering, but she was able to haul herself up into it using one of the nearby beds.

When she dropped down on the other side and turned around, her breath caught in her lungs.

The horrifying sight of bodies hung upside down, their blood pooling into buckets beneath them, greeted her. Her stomach rolled, and her Gift surged up in protest, feeling pulled towards the buckets. The nearer she drew, the sicker and weaker she felt, and it dawned on her that the containers were spelled, imbued with dark magic, no doubt to keep the Gifts in the blood of the hanging victims stable.

 _He’s stealing magic_ , she thought dazedly. _Wallace is trying to steal people’s Gifts and give it to his soldiers_.

The symptoms of her patients finally made sense; their bodies were rejecting the infused power so unsuitable to their biology, as they were non-Gifted. Anger surged up as she realized every word out of the emperor’s mouth had been a lie, that she had been helping him on a pretense. There was no real sickness, just his own greed for an army made entirely of the Gifted, which he would no doubt use to invade Arcadia.

Vibrating with fury, she ran back to the vent, desperate to find Bellamy and Kane. Crawling through the dusty, narrow passageway was just as difficult this time around, and she was so focused on a speedy return that she almost missed the voices echoing from the sickroom. Wallace’s reedy tenor finally caught her attention, and she hung back in the vent, heart racing, not wanting to get caught.

A different kind of fear gripped her when she heard Bellamy demand in a rough, angry rumble, “Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” Wallace replied, every syllable bordering on jeering. “I have already said that.”

“Where. Is. She.”

“I do not know.”

“Where is she?” Bellamy yelled, thunderously. “She didn’t come back to her rooms earlier, and there was no word, no note, no servant with a message. You know where she is, Wallace, and if you don’t tell me--”

At the hanging threat, Clarke squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she had thought to let her people know that she was staying in the infirmary for the night. As tense as things had been between her and Bellamy, she should’ve known her absence would set him off. Though she was also furious at him for being so openly defiant towards the Emperor--just because he wasn’t a subject anymore didn’t mean Wallace didn’t have the power to punish him.

“Watch yourself, Blake,” Wallace sneered. “I am curious, though, how you happened to notice her absence.” There was a cruel, taunting tone to his voice now that gripped Clarke’s heart like a vise, which only tightened as the emperor continued, “I mean, I noticed you two were, ah _\--close_ , even for a mentor and a student. Still, as you are her mentor, I am surprised you are wandering into her chambers this late at night, though I suppose it isn’t unheard of for those in your position of power to, shall we say, _instruct_ their students in other ways as well--”

There was a sharp bang of Gift hitting Gift, and grunt from Bellamy, and choking laughter from Wallace.

“So you do care for her,” the emperor rasped out gleefully, and Clarke peeped her head over the shaft edge to see Bellamy pinning Wallace against the wall, two hands wrapped around his neck, black waves of his Gift shimmering around his fingers.

“That is none of your business,” Bellamy snarled, tightening his grip. His Gift sparked, turning silver, peaking in its power.

Terror clutched at Clarke, and she desperately willed him to let go of the older man. Now was not the time for him to let his emotions get the better of him--not over her, not when there was so much else at stake.

Bellamy seemed to realize the same thing, jerking back from Wallace as if he had been burned.

“She had better return and in one piece, otherwise you will the one responsible for starting another war,” he hissed before backing out of the room, his eyes only leaving Wallace once he shut the door between them.

Clarke still couldn’t breathe, watching Wallace’s rigid figure. Slowly he raised his hand, gesturing with his fingers until a wavering, faded image of Bellamy was before him. Then, with a chilling smile, he twisted his hand, and streams of black Gift shot out of the fake Bellamy and towards Wallace, as if he was absorbing them. When the image fainted with a weak cry, collapsing to the floor with fatal finality, Wallace let out a triumphant chuckle and made it disappear with another flick of his wrist.

Frozen with fear, Clarke stayed put in the vent for a long time after Wallace had left, and her limbs tingled with numbness by the time she climbed down. Her wobbling legs barely supported her as she wandered back up to her rooms, and not even exhaustion could conquer the memory of Wallace’s little show, keeping her up all night, fearful and furious and frustrated with having no good plan to fight their enemy.

As she watched the sun rise from her bed, she decided at least one thing: no more silence between her and Bellamy. With as much danger as Wallace posed, they needed to work together, with no more secrets between them, and that required breaking their stalemate, even if she had to be the first one to do it.

The room began to fill with morning light, and she climbed out of bed, then walked over to her basin and splashed some water on her face. She blinked away the wetness, trying to clear her vision. The more she blinked, though, the fuzzier her sight became.

“Trickster,” she muttered, but her sarcastic, scrawny god did not appear, and there was no distinctive cackle of his ringing in her ears.

Instead, she saw two guards slip into her room, advancing on her with grim expressions.

“No,” she whispered, realization dawning. Wallace had outmaneuvered her, even in just one night. He must have seen or sensed her in the shaft and waited to strike.

“Bellamy,” she cried weakly, as the guards restrained her and whatever drug was in the water pulled her under. “I have to--get to--Bellamy.”

Hands gripped her tighter, Clarke blinked, and then everything went dark.

* * *

 

She woke in the dark too, though she quickly realized it was the lack of windows making it that way rather than the hour. Or it could be the hour too, but she had no way of knowing how long she had been out. Swallowing down the stale taste in her mouth, she pushed up off the cold, damp stone floor. With a snap of her fingers, she tried to conjure up a light, but nothing came. Groaning, she realized there must be dampening spells on her prison. It didn’t stop her from walking the confines of the room, feeling every crevice for a way out.

None appeared, not even when she flung her Gift--one not suited for this type of work, but it was all she had--at the walls again and again and again. After what seemed like hours of effort, she screamed in frustration. Sinking down to the floor, she tried to settle her racing mind. _Her people must be looking for her; they had to be, or_ \--she didn’t want to think about the other option, that Wallace had gotten to them too. Though he was too clever for such blunt and potentially war-starting action, she reasoned, though that reason was fueled by panic and worry. _It was best to do away with just her, the one who was the closest to his secrets_ , she thought. He would no doubt spin some story, of her committing some treasonous act and running. Swearing, she realized that would most likely put an end to the diplomatic negotiations with Arcadia, negating the need, or even the option, for her people to stay here.

 _Bellamy won’t leave without me_ , she thought hopefully for a second, before the hope curdled in her stomach. Then an aching sickness filled her, because he absolutely would not leave without her, even if it meant crossing Wallace, who would happily, triumphantly take advantage of that breach.

 _Gods protect him_ , she prayed viciously. _You better damn well protect him, because this is your fault_.

She then turned to cussing out the Trickster, hoping her anger would draw him to her. He did not appear, and her pleading calls to Wells, her mother, and her father did no good either. She tried her Gift at the walls again, but it was no use. She was stuck, with no way out.

Time stretched in the dark, her worry and fury eating at her until her taut nerves grew numb. So numb, in fact, that when a vertical sliver of light appeared along one wall, she didn’t think it was real.

Then Finn appeared, his face filling with relief when he caught her gaze. With a shout of her name, he flew forward, catching her in a tight hug. Stunned, she couldn’t move, hands useless at her sides as she adjusted to the blinding light from outside.

“I found you,” he breathed, and she shivered uncomfortably at the contact, her senses jumbled after so many hours in the dark. Stiffly, she pushed him away, wondering how he had done exactly that.

He started to explain as they walked out of the prison; events had progressed much as she had guessed they would. When he stumbled over Bellamy’s name, though, her heart skipped a beat.

“So Bellamy stayed,” she repeated slowly. “And?”

“Clarke,” Finn said gently, squeezing her hand.

“He stayed,” she said. “He stayed, and what happened?”

He grimaced, and uneasiness flickered in his eyes. “Clarke.”

“He stayed. He stayed--he stayed, and--” Panic bloomed in her chest, cutting off her air supply and the rest of her words.

“Wallace found him,” Finn admitted finally, his voice too soft. “Bellamy lost it when Wallace announced your ‘betrayal’, challenging him in full view of the court, but Kane forced him to leave with them. I guess he slipped away from the boat and returned. He was sneaking back into the palace, masquerading as a soldier, to look for you. It didn’t take Dante long to sense him out. He knows his Gift too well. He was caught, and given his past with Wallace...Clarke, I--I’m so sorry. Bellamy was executed at dawn this morning.”

“No.”

“Clarke, please--”

“No. _No_. You’re lying. It wasn’t him, he can fake his presence, it was a simulacrum--”

“Clarke!” He gripped her flailing hands, her protesting hands, her fighting hands. “Clarke, I saw the execution. Wallace, he--he made everyone watch. It was Bellamy, I could sense his Gift. It was him, Clarke. I’m so, so sorry, but it _was_ him.”

Everything stopped--her breathing, her heartbeat, any sensation at all. Silence fell, then even that got sucked away, replaced by something more still, more sentient, a patient, predatory sort of quiet. Every fiber of her being seemed to slowly collapse in on itself, shrinking inward to condense into a searing pain at the center of her, pressure mounting until it grew to be too much. With a sharp cry from her, the aching sphere in her chest exploded, sending shards of her grief and her Gift out in waves, strong enough to knock Finn and all nearby furnishings to the ground.

“Clarke?” He grunted in concern as she lifted her head, staring right past him down the hall that was now devoid of color, just smears of black and white and every monochromatic shade in between.

Then her feet began to move of their own accord, a hundred vibrating strings tugging her along, as if her very being was tethered at a hundred other points.

“Clarke!” He called after her, caution in his voice.

She felt her head turn. “Leave, Finn. Gather those you care about and leave this godforsaken place. It is your only chance.”

His eyes widened in terror, but she found she did not care. She did not even care to make sure he followed her instructions, though the faint sound of his footsteps seemed to indicate that he had. The only thing she cared about was the hundred little pulls on her muscles, her heart, leading her to her only chance at retribution.

They waited for her outside, the skeletons and decomposing corpses she had raised from the grave. Not all of them were human--horses and cattle, a gorilla and even a small dragon slain by Cage, or so the stories told, stood at her command as well. This was the Trickster’s gift, his blood-borne bestowal--no longer did she just walk the line between life and death, she controlled it, barreled past it, flipping the laws of the universe on their head. She had her army, and she was ready to lay Wallace’s palace to waste.

He had killed Bellamy, and it was time for him and his followers to pay the price.

She started with the entryway, sending her soldiers along with the larger animals to topple the pillars holding up the glass window ceiling, a pride and joy of the Mounta court. When it shattered, she flexed her lips in something reminiscent of a grin. Happiness was beyond her now, but grim satisfaction would do.

The still-fleshed corpses from the palace graveyard she sent into the maze of hallways leading to the living quarters; it was time Wallace’s supporters were confronted with mortality, when they took it so easily from those who disagreed with them. The way her army oozed blood and guts over the carpets, tapestries, and upholstery sent a shiver down her spine, because the court’s appearance finally reflected its true nature, one of decay.

Walls crumbled and windows shattered as she led her undead procession through the palace. She let the power thrumming in her empty chest guide her towards her ultimate goal, the emperor himself. Barricaded as he was in the throne room, it took her some time to force her way in, casualties mounting on both sides, but finally Captain Emerson fled and Cage was killed, leaving the elder Wallace kneeling and wounded and entirely alone.

Her skeletal soldiers rattled in anticipation, drumming up a steady, ominous beat that replaced the one absent from her heart. He was old, Clarke realized, approaching his prostrate figure. So close to death already. She bared her teeth at the thought.

Time slowed, stretching so that her inhales seemed to last as long as a sunrise and her exhales as long as a sunset. With decisive, menacing steps, she drew closer to this greedy man, bending down to pick up a rib bone from a fallen warrior at her feet.

Then she stopped a few yards away from the emperor, feeling the bone’s dry weight in her hand, and she smiled, coldly, before announcing to her waiting soldiers, “He is mine, and I am death.”

Time snapped back into place, and the bone in her hand snapped too, right over her knee. With a cry and a fling of her hand, she sent a sharp shard hurtling towards him. It landed in his chest, his eyes popping wide at the impact. With a strangled groan, Wallace clutched at the heart-lodged bone, but it was embedded too deeply. Dark liquid poured out the edges of the wound, staining his white shirt and the white bone. He crumpled to the side, collapsing into the arms of death.

Clarke stared at him, her breathing almost as labored as his had been. She blinked, seeing a flash of something--a color, spreading out onto the bone-littered floor between them.

Red, she realized finally. She was seeing red.

As Wallace’s blood continued to seep onto the ground, color began to seep back into Clarke’s vision, splendorous hues springing to life again as she lost her grip on death. Their vibrance seemed to mock the now-ruined throne hall, the only remaining piece of what grandeur used to stand there. Clarke laughed dazedly, mockingly herself as her undead army fell around her, returning to their final rest.

 _I am become death, destroyer of worlds_.

It turned out Wells had been right--she did have extraordinary power, and she had tipped the balance, only she had never thought it would be in this direction.

Her hands were already shaking so hard that when a voice called out her name, a voice she had never thought she would hear again, there wasn’t anything for her to do except turn around, so very slowly, because she didn’t believe her ears.

“You’re dead,” she croaks, staring at the man who cannot be Bellamy. “He said you were dead.”

“Clarke--”

She flinched at the sound of her name on his lips--whoever’s lips, because it could not be him.

“Don’t,” she cried and backed away, nearly tripping over a ribcage. “ _Don’t._ It can’t be you. You’re not real.”

The heartbreak in his eyes matched the cracking sensation in her chest that rattled her to her core. “It’s me, Clarke.”

“No! Finn said he saw you ki-killed.”

He took a step closer, hands raised cautiously, reassuringly, but she still felt the urge to run. “It was a fake, Clarke. A simulacrum.”

“It had your Gift!”

“A trick I picked up in Arcadia, after a lot of practice, something I betted on Dante not knowing. The me they executed wasn’t real. I’m really here. I’m alive.”

A breath later, Clarke launched herself forward, crashing into Bellamy--real, alive, _warm_ Bellamy--at a full run. Her arms latched around his neck, her fingers gripping at fabric and skin, digging in deep. After he caught his breath, knocked out of him by the force of her embrace, he banded his arms around her middle, pulling her even closer. For a minute, they just breathed together, enjoying the feel of chests rising and falling in tandem, heartbeats gradually synchronizing into steady, relieved rhythms.

Wrapped around him and refusing to let go, Clarke allowed her senses to continue convincing her that this wasn’t a trick. A sob twisted its way up her throat as she buried her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling him, earth and metal and soot and magic. She could barely make out the soft murmured words he was speaking into her loose, tangled hair, but they settled her all the same. Without thinking, she pressed her lips to the skin--warm, he was so _warm_ \--at the edge of his collar, and he inhaled sharply at the contact, hands clenching into her sides.

Accidental as it was, suddenly one taste wasn’t enough. Clarke pulled back, sliding her hands around to bracket his firm jaw line. Their gazes caught for a moment-- _yes_ , his dark eyes said, _yes_ \--and then she surged forward, claiming his parted mouth in a frantic kiss, determined not to let him slip through her fingers again. The way he met her, brush for brush, touch for touch, told her he felt the same, and they fed off each other’s greediness, letting heat consume them.

When their breath had run out but their hands had yet to tire of exploring, he ended the kiss with a groan, pulling his mouth away but keeping his forehead against hers.

“Clarke,” he warned. “I can’t--”

Her heart dropped. “You can’t what?”

As he started to disentangle himself, she resisted, tightening her hold on him. She was not going to lose him, not like this or any other way.

“Please, Clarke, this isn’t right.” Bones cracked under his shifting feet, bones she had raised from the grave to turn the palace to rubble.

Nausea rolled through her gut. “I never meant for this to happen. I never meant--but you were dead and the god’s gift just--it took over Bellamy, and this is all my fault but please I can’t do this alone--”

His thumbs came up to brush her cold cheeks, already drained of the warmth he had put in them just moments before. “What are you talking about?”

“What I did here, if you can’t forgive me--”

He groaned again, wavering forward, back towards her. The pressure in her chest eased. “That’s not what I meant. I know this wasn’t your fault. Trust me, I know a god’s game when I see one.”

“Then why…” she trailed off, suddenly nervous again.

Bellamy sighed, still stroking her face. “You’re my student, Clarke. My student. And I’m older than you besides. I should know better.”

Clarke scoffed, curling her fingers back into his shirt. “Don’t be stupid.”

Then she pressed into him, every curve of hers brushing every line of his. He choked out a laugh, sending a weak glare of disapproval. “ _Clarke._ ”

“You got over Octavia and Lincoln, and I don’t have to be your student anymore.”

“Now who’s being stupid.”

“I think we can safely say I know the limits to my Gift now.”

“Limits, huh?” He said, gaze flicking briefly to the wreckage around them.

“His powers is gone, Bellamy,” she whispered, realizing it was true. “I can’t feel it anymore. It’s just my own Gift again. I’m safe. _We’re_ safe.”

He breathed her name one more time before she rose up to kiss him again, teasing away all his reservations. She let him get lost in her, just as she found herself again in him, slowly grounding herself to the here and now once more, severing her last ties with death.

One string still tugged on her, though, tightening until she felt it snap.

A loud pop echoed in the destroyed hall. “Well, isn’t this charming,” the Trickster drawled.

Clarke immediately found herself shoved behind Bellamy, whose hands were sparking with his Gift already. Quickly she slid her fingers to his wrist, squeezing a warning.

“What do you want now?” She called out to the god, frowning. “You got your rebellion.”

“And you got your mage. I’d say we’re even.”

“So what are you doing here?”

The Trickster just grinned at her. “Three, two, one--”

“Clarke!” Finn skidded into the hall, eyes wide and frantic. “What did you--”

“I’m alright,” she sighed, pinching Bellamy when his Gift flared up again. Lowering her voice, she whispered, “He’s no danger to us.”

As Finn ran up, Clarke saw the god consider him calculatingly, gleefully. It seems the Trickster had set his eye on a new target.

“You, royal boy,” he barked when Finn halted in front of them. “You’re next in line, yes?”

Finn froze, then nodded. “If Dante and Cage are dead, then yes--I am.”

The god whistled, walked over to the new emperor of Mounta, and then slung an arm over his shoulder. “You and me, we’re going to be a great team. Well, given a few conditions.”

Finn made a small choking sound, no doubt from the Trickster’s much too tight grip. The god forcibly walked him out of the room, all the while chatting on and on about how he wanted to rebuild Mounta in his image and would help Finn revitalize his country, as long as the proper homage was paid.

“I almost feel sorry for him,” Bellamy remarked dryly.

Clarke chuckled, intertwining her fingers with his. “At least we’ll be long gone by the time they start getting into trouble.”

“As long as they keep it on this side of the sea.”

“I think the Trickster wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Bellamy squeezed her hand as they began walking out of the palace, towards the docks where their ship had no doubt returned for them by now. “How furious do you think Kane will be with us?”

“Considering we toppled Wallace and his regime with minimal civilian casualties, setting Arcadia up for a new partnership with a much more friendly neighbor?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“They should throw us a festival. Or at least a ball.”

“I hate balls.”

“Maybe they’ll name a library after you.”

“That I would accept.”

He grinned, and the boyishness in it made Clarke’s pulse stutter. She jerked to a stop. “Bellamy?”

“Yes?” He twisted around, looking at her in confusion.

“You can’t change your mind, not when we get back to the boat, or Kane gives you a look, or your sister teases you, or someone tries to provoke you like Dante did.”

“You knew about that?”

She ignored his surprise. “You can have doubts, and we can talk about them. Just--don’t change your mind.” She brought their hands up to her mouth, brushing her lips against his knuckles. “Okay?”

His smile melted into something softer, warmer. “Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”

“Really? Back to that?”

“You’re mine now. I get to call you whatever I want.”

“Remember, that works both ways.”

“Do your worst.”

“You can count on it. Since you’re mine now, too.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not at all where I expected to end this, but the muse does what it will. That's all, folks! Hope you enjoyed it :)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 coming soon (I really do mean soon!).
> 
> Come find me on tumblr (kay-emm-gee)!


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